


Roll Me, Tumble Me

by jazzonia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Content, Clueless Harry, Domestic, Explicit Language, Getting Together, Grimmauld Place, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2517065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzonia/pseuds/jazzonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grimmauld Place hasn't been outright hostile toward Harry in several years, but lately it's been sort of... <i>nice</i> to him. Harry finds himself waiting for the other shoe to drop, and the other chair to upturn itself, and the other candelabra to pitch itself from atop his bureau.</p><p>It's new. It's weird. And it brings Draco Malfoy, soot-covered and sputtering, to his doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roll Me, Tumble Me

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt: "What if Grimmauld Place thought Harry's lack of a social life was so pathetic that it started forcibly getting him one?"
> 
> Title comes from a song by The Deadly Gentlemen.

Harry isn't sure when it started.

He was used to the doors slamming, the portraits shouting, the hot water disappearing, and the windows opening in the night. Grimmauld Place had never been particularly receptive to non-Black guests, and outright hostile to Sirius. Order meetings were interrupted by disembodied screeches, beds routinely collapsed under their occupants, gnomes pulled up the flowers that Fleur spent half of May planting.

Then, one day, something changed.

It was the third year after the war. Auror training had become the fun kind of challenging instead of the collapse-without-taking-a-shower kind, and Teddy was through the brunt of his terrible twos. Harry's life was finally, for all intents and purposes, sorted out. He was less prone to stare at unsuspecting Muggles with forearm tattoos and less suspicious of cloaked strangers (of which there were many in the wizarding world). Even the nightmares had largely subsided.

He felt, therefore, that this newfound suspicion of his own home was a kind of regression back into the bad habits of his teenage years.

First it was the water. Harry had always taken for granted that hundred-year-old plumbing would not always function perfectly. Some mornings the water trickled out of the tap, some mornings it gushed, and others he could not get it to warm up no matter how much he fiddled with the charms. Harry didn't exactly enjoy the unpredictability, but after five consecutive mornings of moderate water pressure and perfectly warm showers he started to get suspicious.

Next was the noise. Clattering shutters, creaking stairs, groaning floorboards, and howling wind all ceased. Harry's ears rang with the quiet, his dinners unpunctuated by slamming doors and his sleep uninterrupted by loud far-off thuds.

He found himself waiting for the other shoe to drop. The other chair to upturn itself. The other candelabra to pitch itself from atop his bureau.

Living in constant expectation of calamity, while familiar to the point of being comforting, was not something Harry felt to be healthy over the long-term. So he tried to bring up the topic with guests.

“D'you reckon something is different about the house?” he asked Ron one day over takeaway.

“Uh,” Ron said with the panicked edge of a boyfriend never completely confident on the timing of his next anniversary, “did you change the wallpaper or something?”

Hermione wasn't much help, either, when she Flooed over one Saturday afternoon to consult the small but respectable library at Grimmauld Place. “I hadn't noticed anything. Why, does something appear out of the ordinary? Has Kreacher tried out a new cleaning charm? I know the house elves at Hogwarts are testing new varnishes over the summer and they might've roped Kreacher into the trial too—“

When asked, Neville interpreted the question as an inquiry after his longstanding promise to bring Harry a houseplant. Luna delved into commentary on various magical pests, Dean and Seamus shrugged and continued arguing about the Harpies’ chances at the finals, and Bill did a quick sweep for fresh curses before declaring the house “as cursed as it's ever been, but no more.”

It was Teddy, in fact, who hit on it. Harry sat cross-legged in front of his hearth one day, waiting to catch Teddy as he tumbled out through the Floo on his third-ever solo Floo trip. He had practiced for weeks and was finally allowed by Grandmum to come through on his own on his birthday last month. It had since become his favorite part of any trip to Harry's.

The flames surged and Harry heard a delighted giggle, followed closely by his godson.

“Hi, Teds!” he said, giving the boy a squeeze.

“Hi, Uncle Harry! Hi, house!” Teddy chirped.

_Hi, house? That's a new one,_ Harry thought, marveling again at how quickly three-year-olds picked up new things.

Teddy squirmed out of Harry's arms and ran over to the door. He threw his arms around the doorjamb, effectively hugging the wall.

“Whatcha doing there?” Harry asked.

“House gets a hug, too. Nice house.” Hug dispensed, Teddy made for the kitchen, where Kreacher always laid out biscuits and milk for his visit. Though it took him some time to warm to Harry, Kreacher had always looked at Teddy with a frankly disturbing amount of affection.

Harry was left on his hearth, wondering not for the first time how on earth he'd managed to survive two wars, much less win them, with such poor powers of deduction.

The house was nice! The house was _being nice to him_. It had given him the gift of not trying to make his life difficult.

“Thanks, house,” he said, feeling silly, and swore he felt a distinctly contented shudder through the floorboards.

***

Quitting its years-long offensive against him would have been enough, truly. Harry would have been perfectly happy with a detente, especially one that featured consistent water pressure.

But then the house got… _pushy._

A different and more benign sort than the old trying-to-drive-you-back-into-the-Muggle-cupboard-from-whence-you-came pushy, but pushy nonetheless.

On weekend mornings when Harry usually had a lie-in, his bedroom curtains drew themselves open so that he awoke at sunrise.

On evenings that Ron or Luna or George Flooed home with him to pick up books or drop off leftovers, he found his record player on and the liquor cabinet open, enticing his friends to linger.

And on one Sunday afternoon at the end of a visit with Teddy, when Harry was waiting sprawled out on his sitting room floor for Andromeda to fire-call, the house lurched sideways just as the Floo opened. Harry slid backward, holding Teddy close to his chest and expecting a startled wail. In fact Teddy seemed less interested about Grimmauld Place’s seismic sneeze than the sooty Draco Malfoy lying face-down on the hearth.

“Cousin Draco!”

“Theodore.”

“Malfoy?”

“Potter. Yes, very good, we all know each other’s names,” Malfoy said, picking himself up. “My mother sends her apologies but she had to borrow Andromeda for some fitting or other. I’m to bring Cousin Theodore back to the Manor, where we’ll all meet for lunch.”

“Is there biscuits?” Teddy asked.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, his mouth twisting as if he were holding back some other answer.

“I’m not sending Teddy off with a stranger,” Harry said. The withering look Malfoy gave him in return brought Harry right back to third year.

Instead of following the look with some overly witty retort, Malfoy addressed Teddy.

“Theodore, what colour is Auntie Narcissa’s sitting room?”

“Blue!”

“And what kind of biscuits do we have at the Manor?”

“Choooocolate.”

“And what mustn’t we ever do in the library?”

“Pet the doggie statues. They look like play but they bite.”

“Very good.” Malfoy looked back to Harry. “Though no doubt the most unobservant godfather in the Wizarding world, even you must realize by now that Theodore visits the Manor for Sunday tea _every week_. And that is where we are headed, your faulty Floo notwithstanding. Come along,” he said, and Teddy (the traitor!) skipped over to grab Malfoy’s hand. They were gone a moment later in what was likely the first trip from Grimmauld Place to Malfoy Manor for several decades.

“Well,” Harry said as the rug underneath his legs let out indignant puff of soot, “bugger.”

***

Harry is no expert on families, but apparently word travels quickly within them; not even three hours of the Floo Incident Andromeda owled him to strongly suggest that he apologize to Draco for insinuating that he was kidnapping Teddy. Harry didn’t agree that that was quite how the meeting had gone, but wanted not to anger Andromeda enough that he complied.

Which is how Draco Malfoy ends up in Harry’s kitchen, staring warily at Harry’s tea service, breaking Harry’s (well, Kreacher’s) scones into small pieces with his long slim fingers.

“So, er, what’s new with the potions innovation business these days?” Harry asks to break the silence.

“…by definition, everything, Potter.” Malfoy draws out each word, making it sound like every syllable uttered in Harry’s direction is an effort. Harry wonders if they teach this kind of diction in the Slytherin common room, or if Malfoy learned it from Snape personally.

“Just trying to be polite,” he grumbles.

“Polite!” Malfoy raises his eyes briefly to the ceiling, and Harry’s eyes drift to watch his pale lean throat stretch. “I didn’t think you knew the word.”

“Well that’s why I invited you over, isn’t it? To apologize for my previous lack of politeness.”

“It would have been much more considerate to leave me be.”

Harry looks down into his cup, calculating how quickly common decency would permit him to bid Malfoy good afternoon and goodbye. Truth be told, Harry enjoys seeing people from his Hogwarts days—with so many friends, teachers, and family members lost to the war, those that pulled through share a special sort of kinship. Not that he necessarily includes Malfoy on that list. Still, Harry figures he better let the bloke finish his first cup before showing him out.

Then the thumping starts.

“What the bloody hell is that? Do you still have a hippogriff up there?” Malfoy asks.

Harry glances sharply up at Malfoy. ”How do you know about—never mind. This house has a mind of its own. I’d better go check on it.”

He stands to go check on the cause of the loud thumps coming from the second floor, frowning when Malfoy stands as well. It’s still a surprise to see him in Muggle trousers, even after countless awkward near misses in Diagon Alley and at various charity events.

“I’m not staying here in your haunted kitchen by myself,” Malfoy says by way of explanation. “And if you’re as bad at self-defense as you are at dressing toddlers, you might need the backup.”

“Oi! I don’t dress him, he chooses—” Harry draws up short, pausing in the doorway of his kitchen to take in the sight of Malfoy wearing an amused half-smile. Not mocking, not condescending, not exclusionary—just amused. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen that expression on Malfoy’s face before.

“You should be genuine more often,” Harry says. “Suits you.”

He starts up the stairs toward the source of the noises before Malfoy can notice his pink cheeks. The grand staircase in the front is still lined with Black family portraits, and though they shout at him considerably less these days, Harry still prefers the service stairs tucked behind the pantry. They lead up to the junior suite on the second floor, which Harry has made his bedroom; it is too sad to sleep in Sirius’s old quarters, and the master bedroom has a very scary bathroom done up in black marble that Harry desperately wants never to see again.

They emerge into Harry’s bedroom. It is simple but cozy, with a large four-poster, wide fireplace, low-slung sofa, and heavy velvet drapes astride a picture window overlooking the road. Nothing appears to be out of the order, though the noises had unmistakably come from this room.

Harry scratches the back of his neck. “It’s probably just a cursed wardrobe or trunk or something.”

“Do you make it a habit of keeping malignant magical objects in your private quarters?” Malfoy gestures at a side table with his wand, causing it to shudder.

“No,” Harry says, barely suppressing a heavy sigh, “of course not. If something’s cursed, I take it to Charlie, but I can only make so many trips to Romania every month.”

“I’m sure that’s a chore,” Malfoy says, seemingly without thinking. He and Harry lock eyes, Malfoy’s shock at his accidental candor meeting Harry’s confusion.

A great thump sounds from behind them. They turn to stare at the bed, the tops of its carved posts still vibrating.

“Turn around,” Harry suggests, and Malfoy does; as soon as their backs are to the bed, the thump sounds again. They whirl just in time to see the bed still itself.

“What in Merlin’s name is causing that?” Malfoy said, apparently to himself. He casts a few spells that Harry recognizes from training and many more that he doesn’t. Harry gives up trying to pinpoint the spells after the third one he can’t name, finding that his gaze drifts instead to the slender cut of Malfoy’s wrist and the intent set of his brow.

“This bed is not enchanted,” Malfoy declares after a silent minute. He swipes the back of his hand against his upper lip, and Harry finds himself licking his own lips at the sight. He’d recognized Malfoy’s new adult grace from afar, of course, but to see him wielding advanced magic in his own bedroom was something else entirely.

“—in the house? Potter?”

“Erm, sorry. What about the house?”

A huff of impatience. “Have you noticed anything unusual in the house recently? Changes in temperature or pressure, the way the light—“

Suddenly the floor pitches forward, and Harry grabs onto one of his bed’s posts to stay upright. Malfoy reacts less quickly and ends up sprawled face-down across the crimson duvet.

“Uh, things like that,” Harry says as Malfoy scrambles onto his back. “The house is kind of making me get a life? I’m not sure—“ but a second lurch sends him toppling down on top of Malfoy. He catches himself on his elbows, legs splayed over Malfoy’s and noses nearly touching.

Neither of them move. After a beat Malfoy breathes in, no doubt preparing to admonish Harry for his characteristic clumsiness, but Harry preempts his comments with a kiss.

He can’t say what exactly prompts him to do it: Malfoy’s flushed cheeks, his surprising civility, his close-cut Muggle trousers, their fall. But with a warm pliant tea-stained mouth under his, he finds he doesn’t much care.

Malfoy’s hands skim up Harry’s sides to trace the contours of his arms. Harry deepens their kiss, scraping his teeth across Malfoy’s pouting bottom lip as his hands move down to knead Harry’s arse. Malfoy pulls Harry toward him, both moaning as their hard cocks find contact with one another’s thighs.

Harry reaches between them and undoes Malfoy’s vexing button flies. He slides his hand inside, palm dragging across the hot bulge in what feels like real silk pants. Malfoy breaks their kiss, neck straining and chest heaving in a decidedly indelicate—and unexpectedly hot—way as Harry’s hand delves under the waistband of Malfoy’s pants and gives his cock a few long pulls. Harry noses under Malfoy’s jaw and bites at his throat, neck, collarbones, then rucks up the bottom of his sweater to nip at Malfoy’s pale stomach.

Harry glances up as he pulls Malfoy’s pants and trousers down to mid-thigh. Blond hair tufted, pale cheeks pink-stained, mouth bitten and open—Harry can only moan as he licks a hot stripe up Malfoy’s swollen cock. The thighs underneath his hands fall open, one knee bent, as wantonly spread as the half-shucked trousers will allow. He teases the head of Malfoy’s cock before moving down his shaft with greedy gulps.

Malfoy is mumbling something—Harry catches a few _Merlin_ s and _fucking yes_ es—but Harry focuses on the feast in front of him. Unlike his reedy stature, Malfoy’s cock has a surprising girth, and Harry savors the weight and heat of it. His hands alternate between cupping Malfoy’s balls and kneading his soft pale thighs.

All too soon Malfoy clutches at Harry’s shoulders, warning him, but Harry keeps his rhythm going until Malfoy spills onto his tongue with a shudder. Harry swallows around him, tongue trailing gently down the sensitive flesh as he pulls off. He can’t help but linger for a moment to bite at Malfoy’s thigh and lick at the crease of his groin. Harry’s hard, of course—can feel the urgent press of his erection against his flies—but this is satisfying enough.

“Get up here,” Malfoy says, rough-voiced. Harry dares to look up now, smiles at the obvious post-orgasmic daze writ on Malfoy’s features. He crawls up Malfoy’s body, indulging himself by pressing his groin against Malfoy’s thigh as he does so.

“Get your cock out.”

Oh, _Merlin_ , the things Harry’d like to hear that rough voice say. He complies: sits back on his thighs, Malfoy’s leg between them; unzips his jeans; shimmies them down enough to work his hand inside and cup himself.

“I told you to get it out, not faff around,” Malfoy says, and Harry’s mouth falls open in surprise and lust and satisfaction. He pushes his pants down too, leaving his hard leaking cock out for Malfoy’s inspection.

Malfoy props himself up on his elbows, stomach tight and defined under Harry’s hands. “Touch yourself.”

Harry does, squeezing the base of his cock with one hand as he grasps his high tight balls with the other. A few hard slow pulls before he begins in earnest, jacking himself off to Malfoy’s instructions. _Fuck._

Malfoy talks him through what is sure to be the best wank of his life: slowing down, speeding up, pinching his nipples, kneading his balls, scratching up his thighs (a tried-and-true favorite, but electric again under Malfoy’s gaze), even reaching back to work a finger into his arsehole. Not even five minutes and Harry’s gone, spurting over his own fist and Malfoy’s stomach. He strokes slowly through the aftershocks, surprised to feel Malfoy’s hands smoothing over his thighs as he regains his breath.

“Wow,” he says when he’s able, “that was…” unexpected? incredible? potentially very stupid?

“Apparently this meddling house’s intended outcome,” Malfoy says, a small smile playing at his lips. “This happens in willful family houses—they take an interest in the lives being led within them. They’ve been known to forcibly eject unwanted suitors, though I’ve never heard of them dragging one in.”

Harry laughs. “Are you planning to court me, Draco Malfoy?”

“Well, clearly I’ve won the house over.” Harry can’t help himself but lean forward to kiss Malfoy right then, removing first Malfoy’s shirt and then his own before stretching out alongside him.

They kiss for long languorous minutes, then Malfoy rolls them over to end up astride Harry. Neither of them are soft anymore, so Harry asks, “What now?”

A noise in the adjoining bathroom makes them turn their heads: a tap opening, and water beginning to fill the bathtub.

“There’s an idea,” Malfoy says, shooting Harry a sly smile. He leans down for another quick kiss, then heads into the bathroom.

Harry sits up, dazed; looks from his rumpled bedding to the clothes strewn on the floor to the curls of steam emanating from the bathroom. “Thanks, house,” he whispers.

Then Malfoy calls, and he follows.


End file.
